


"..."

by ThisIsLizz



Category: Zombies Run!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:09:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisIsLizz/pseuds/ThisIsLizz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are nearly five years old and you sit in the living room, telling a story to your teddy bear. Your father tells you to stop making so much noise, and be quiet or go to your room! You don't want to be alone, so you sit quietly and pet your teddy. Your teddy never finds out how the story ends.</p>
<p>You are five and a half years old and you just caught a frog at the nearby lake with you rest friend and her older sister. You are excited and want to tell your mother. She sighs. Not now. She says, tell me the story later. Mommy has a headache. You never tell her about the frog, you don't want her to hurt."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

**"..."**

_(Did you ever wonder why Five doesn't talk all that much?)_ _  
_

 

You are four years old, and when your mother picks you up from primary school, you ask her why she is sad. She just smiles, but not with her eyes, and says, it is nothing, you shouldn't ask about it. After dinner you are lying in bed and you can't sleep because your parents are shouting at each other downstairs.

 

You are nearly five years old and you sit in the living room, telling a story to your teddy bear. Your father tells you to stop making so much noise and be quiet, or go to your room! You don't want to be alone, so you sit quietly and pet your teddy. Your teddy never finds out how the story ends.

 

You are five and when you come home from playing with other kids you sometimes hope your dad's shoes are not in the hallways, because when he is not at home he can't get angry and shout, and when he is not at home your parents can't fight.

 

You are five and a half years old and you just caught a frog at the nearby lake with your best friend and her older sister. You are excited and want to tell your mother, she sighs and says „Not now, tell me the story later. Mommy has a headache.“ You never tell her, you don't want to cause her more pain.

 

You are six and you come home from school, and your mother has a bruise on her temple. She says it's nothing. Your father tells you not to tell anybody. You don't understand. You don't tell anybody.

 

You are nearly eight years old and your parents fight at the dinner table. You want to leave the house and get away but you can't before dinner is over. Your father yells. Your mother doesn't say anything. She never says anything when they fight. You want her to say _something_ but she doesn't, and you want your father to stop yelling. You beg them not to fight, _please._ You don't raise your voice, you say it silently, carefully. Your father tells you not to talk about stuff you don't understand, not to be nosy. Only speak when you're asked, and shut up when adults talk! Dinner is not over yet but you get up and while your father shouts after you, you leave the house and run. The lake where you caught the frog years ago is gone. There is a construction side now, they are going to build a school. Or something. You don't really remember. You haven't talked to the girl that used to be your best friend back then in a long while

 

* * *

 

You are nine years old and your teacher is worried about you, she says you've gotten rather quiet lately and a little absent-minded. Is everything okay? Your father demands to know why you don't pay attention in class. He's not quite yelling at you - because the teacher is here - but his voice is loud. You shake your head, you tell them everything is fine. You promise to pay better attention. He reminds you to work hard, don't be a disappointment to him. You nod. You leave. You run to the construction side, and then around it, until you get a little sweaty.

 

You are nine years old and you work extra hard on your homework to show your teachers and your father you are not slacking off.

 

You are ten years old and your father calls the police officer in the cop drama you are watching an annoying bossy bitch because she talks too much.

 

You are ten years old and you answer your teachers questions only when they ask, you talk to your classmates only when they want something, you work quietly. Some of your classmates think you are a bit weird. You want to be friends with them, but asking them if you can join when they play catch is just too difficult. So you don't.

 

You are eleven years old when one day your PE teacher asks if you want to participate in a small running competition for students. Because you are really fast, she says. You like running. You tell her maybe. She hands you a form for your parents to sign. You say you will think about it.

 

You are eleven years old and you have been carrying the form around with you for two weeks. You hide it in your desk and every afternoon before dinner you take it out and look at it. You made sure it has no wrinkles and it is still clean. It's just a form but it's important because your teacher thinks you are _good_. All the other teachers just look at you, worried or annoyed. Every evening you want to _try_ , you want to force yourself to take the form out of its save place in your desk drawer, and to take it to your parents and to ask if you can do it. Every evening you are too worried what they are going to say. You don't want to make your father upset. Every evening you head downstairs for dinner without the form, and you don't ask.

 

You are eleven years old and your teacher asks if you have made your decision about the competition yet. You think about the form in its save place in your backpack, between your physics notes. You like to look at it when you eat your lunch all by yourself. You tell your teacher you will ask your parents tonight.

 

You are eleven years old and your father is in the living room watching sports. You sit down next to your mother solving a crossword puzzle at the kitchen counter. She wears a longsleeve shirt, she always does the day after your parents had a fight. You hesitate before you take out the form and put it on the table in front of her. You explain. It's something for school. She frowns when she sees the entrance fee for the competition. She tells you to ask your father after the game is over. Your father yells at both of you to _shut up_ because he can't hear the announcer.

 

You are eleven years old and after the football game you finally find your courage to pick up the form again and head downstairs. You hesitate. Your father is in the living room, watching commercials, rather bored. In your head, you practise what you are going to say. You repeat the same lines, over and over. You enter the living room and hand the form to your father. He asks if this competition is something for school. You nod. He looks at the form again, frowns. You are worried he might wrinkle it. He asks you if it's something that will help you get to a good high school. You shake your head. He asks why you want to waste your time with unnecessary things instead of improving your grades. And why you waste _his_ time. He asks why you have to be so strange all the time, why you can't be normal, why you want to do this useless competition. For fun, you mumble, without looking up. You like running.

 

You are eleven years old and your father tells you to stop talking such nonsense, stop wasting his time. You want to tell him that you really like running and that you are _good_ at it. You open your mouth but he just shoves you aside, because it's time for the match analysis. He wants to listen to that. He never wants to listen to you. He made his decision, and now shut up! You close your mouth again, the things you wanted to say unsaid. The words you practised before, repeated in your head over and over again - lost. On your way to the front door you throw the form into the bin. The streetlights are on and people are still working on the construction side when you arrive, sweating, out of breath. The new college campus is nearly completed.

 

* * *

 

You are twelve years old and your new classmates call you odd because you stick to yourself. They say you are too quiet. Some call you a weirdo, a few pick on you during breaks. You don't tell your teachers. You don't tell your parents. When you run in the evening you can see college students making their way from the cafeteria to their evening classes, or their dorms, or some bar.

 

You are thirteen and you ask your father for more money to buy new running shoes. He shouts at you to not talk about money during dinner and to shut up about all the expensive stuff you want to have. So you do shut up.

 

You are fourteen and your classmates don't talk to you anymore, and your teachers frown at you. You work hard on your essays and exams. You dread the moments in class when your teachers ask you questions. You hear one of the girls in class whisper that your fringes are too long. You like them that way, they cover more of your face. Maybe if people don't see you they won't talk to you and expect you to talk as well.

 

You are fourteen and a half and your father tells you about the new house. You find the courage to say that you don't want to move. Your mother explains how much better the new house is going to be. Your father tells you to keep out of stuff you're too young to understand, and that children don't get to make important decisions. He already made the decision to move and doesn't want to hear another complaint. You stare at the food in front of you. You feel the need to scream, and shout, and yell at him. You swallow hard, fight back the tears, and nod. Then you get up without another word and you go for a run. You watch the college students going through their daily routines.

 

You are fifteen and your new house is too far away to run all the way to the campus building in the evening.

 

* * *

 

You are sixteen and the new transfer student seems to like you. She doesn't mind that you only talk when you have to, that you never ask questions yourself. She loves to talk and you don't mind listening to her. She has a beautiful voice, dark skin and you like her hair a lot. She smiles at you, and that day, when you go for a run, you are faster than ever, nearly making it to the college building although it's so far away now.

 

You are sixteen and your father sees you kissing the new transfer student just outside the schoolgate when he picks you up from school. It's your first kiss. He is angry and he shouts at you. He shouts at her as well. He uses a terrible slur. He yells. He will not allow it. You beg him to let you explain, _please_ , you can- He tells you to shut up, to not say a word, he doesn't want any explanations. He forbids you to talk about it again. You open your mouth to speak, and find that you can't. You want to say something but you can't. He pulls you away. You see the shocked look on her face. She also looks hurt. You hate yourself for not saying anything when your father shouted at her. And called her names. You should have said something. But you didn't. You get in the car.

 

You are sixteen, and your heart hurts, and the transfer student hasn't talked to you in weeks. Your father shouts at you for always being so silent and different and difficult, and having no friends. Your mother begs you to behave a bit more like a normal teenager. You don't know how to _be_ a normal teenager, and you don't know how to _tell_ them that you don't know how to be a normal teenager. You don't know how to ask normal teenagers for advice either. You nearly make it to the campus on your run. Maybe you are getting faster. Maybe the town is getting smaller. Sometimes it feels like it's suffocating you. Like you want to scream, but there is not enough air in your lungs for it. Maybe if you are fast enough you can outrun it.

 

* * *

 

You are sixteen and a half years old and the school psychologist says there is medication to help you. You don't think there is something wrong with you. Your parents say you are different and difficult, and tell you to take your medication. The pills make you tired.

 

You are seventeen and your fringes are long enough to cover half your face. Your teachers just sigh and shrug when you don't answer their questions. They give you written assigments. You try to avoid your parents. You don't want to say or do anything that will make your father angry, and your mother disappointed.

 

You are seventeen years old and you manage to run all the way to the campus for the first time. The buildings look a little different now than before, but only a little. You watch the students in the distance. A woman with short, pink hair, wearing leather pants is juggling with three beer bottles. The couple next to her are clapping. You focus and you can hear their voices in the distance. You see the three of them laughing. You wonder why it seems so easy for some people to make friends. Why it seems so easy for all of them to communicate, to talk to each other, to express their feelings. You don't know how to do that. You don't remember when words became so difficult. Your parents are right, you  _are_ different and difficult.

 

You are seventeen years old and your new pills make running difficult and exhausting. The doctor says they will help you. You don't want help. You want to run. Running helps. You only pretend to take them.

 

You are eighteen and your father shouts at you. He yells at you because as long as you are difficult like this, you won't get into a good college and you won't get a good job. He blames you - you are not trying hard enough to fit in with your classmates. You apologize. He doesn't want to hear your apologies. You don't apologize again, you just nod.

 

You are eighteen and your teacher suggests a Distance Learning program at a local college. Business studies. He says it's a good idea because you are uncomfortable around others. You are not uncomfortable around others, they are uncomfortable around _you_. Your parents think it's a wonderful idea. Your mother is happy because this way you can keep on living at home. She's wearing longsleeve again today.

 

You are eighteen years old and after two weeks of practising the words in your head you force yourself to tell your parents that you don't like business studies. Your father mocks you, asks you what else _someone like you_ would be able to do. He laughs. He suggests you could try acting, or singing, or you could become a language teacher. His laughter hurts. You want to tell him that you don't know yet what you want to do, but you want to find out.  
You don't tell him.

 

You are eighteen and a guy at the mall asks you for your name because he thinks you are cute. You blush, you want to tell him your name. You only say it in your head though, speaking words out loud it's too difficult. You can't say anything. He frowns. He calls you weird. You don't see him again. It's sad because he seemed nice.

 

You are eighteen and it's your last day of school. You run to the university campus where the lake used to be. You watch a young student carrying a big box across the main square. When he drops it you can hear him swearing, and you are surprised when you hear yourself chuckle. It's nearly inaudible, but you are suprised nevertheless. When was the last time you heard yourself laughing? You don't remember.

 

You are eighteen years old and the complete stranger at the college campus lifts his arm, smiles and waves at you. Not a wave to shoo you away, not a wave to make you come nearer. He just waves at you, a little embarrased because you saw him drop the box. And as if to say: Hi. You want to lift your arm and wave back, but even that seems way too difficult now. You just stare at the man for a few seconds, who waves at you, friendly, and then picks up his load again to continue his way to another building.

 

* * *

 

You are nineteen years old and you do most of your college work from home. You still don't like business. You can't remember the last time you said more than yes or no or thank you to anybody. You don't even care.

 

You are nineteen years old when the student in the front row with the Spanish accent, who has been caughing for the whole lecture, suddently attacks your teacher and tries to bite her. She screams. There is blood and people are screaming, inside and outside the classroom. The door bursts open and students storm in, attacking others, there is panic and there are screams. You don't scream. Only in your head. You don't even think, you just grab your bag and run through the rear exit.

 

You are nineteen years old when the apocalypse happens. When the zombies take over. First they take the mall, then your campus, then the central shopping district, then the highschool you went to not that long ago. Then the whole city.

 

You are nineteen when you run home through all the chaos, through crashed cars and running people and screaming and people attacking others and biting everbody they can catch. You run home while zombies take your hometown.

 

You are nineteen years old when you barricade the door, grab your father's big duffel bag and you throw in everything that might be usefull. You can hear screams and loid noises, and cars.

 

You are nineteen years old when you push your mother away, who doesn't look like your mother anymore, who has blood all over her face and a big gaping wound on her chest, and dead liveless eyes. She trips over a chair. You hear her neck crack.

You are nineteen years old when your brain stops working for a few seconds.

You are nineteen years old when the only thought that's left in your head is Run Run Run Run!

 

You are nineteen years old when you flee from your house and your mothers broken body, run across the backyard, and head for one of the running trails you know will lead out of the city.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't matter how old you are. Not anymore. Not after the apocalypse. Age is part of the old life. Zombies are part of the new life.  
> It's been three weeks since the outbreak.
> 
> It's been thirty weeks and five days and the pilot who operates the helicopter tries to have a conversation with you. You listen to her talking, sometimes you nod, but you don't answer. She thinks you are hiding something.
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 1 AND THE FIRST EPISODES OF SEASON 2!

It doesn't matter how old you are. Not anymore. Not now after the apocalypse. Age is a part of the old life. Zombies are part of the new life.  
It's been three weeks since the outbreak.

 

It's been four weeks since the outbreak and running gets more and more difficult because you hardly ever sleep. You have nightmares and you are in a constant fear of something attacking you. You find a fire axe in an abandoned house and take it with you, just in case.

 

It's been six weeks since the outbreak and you joined a group of refugees who head for a military base. You don't know where else to go so you might as well follow them. Some of the refugees talk a lot, tell the same storys again and again, how they escaped, who they had to kill, what they had to witness. Rinse and repeat. A mechanism to cope with everything, maybe? Can talking comfort people who are not like you, who are not difficult?  
You don't talk. You don't tell stories.

 

It's been six weeks and two days since the outbreak and you kill your first zombie. It attacks you and the other during the night. A teenage boy and a middle aged woman get bitten. You use your axe to cut off the zombie's head. There is blood everywhere. The teenage boy is panicking and crying when he sees the wound on his leg. The other refugees just stare at you. You look at the bloody axe in your hands and the corpse on the floor in front of you, and you think about that boy who will turn into a zombie soon. You don't know how to deal. You don't want to see it. You do what you do best. You run.

 

* * *

 

It's been eight weeks and three days since the outbreak and you are nearly at the military base when the long stream of survivors waiting to enter gets attacked by the undead. You are fast enough to outrun them. You are faster than most. You slip into the base before they shut the doors and leave the other people to their fate. And to the zombies. The refugees on your side of the fence scream when all of you have to witness the zombies feasting on those who weren't fast enough. If you could you'd scream as well.

 

It's been ten weeks since the outbreak and at the military base they assigned you to kitchen duty. The people you work with are annoyed, because you don't talk to them, but you do all the tasks you've been assigned to. They tell each other stories of how they escaped, who they had to kill, what they had to witness. Rinse and repeat. They ignore you, and it's okay. You don't want friends anyways. You haven't had friends in a long time, and people die fast these days.

 

It's been fifteen weeks since the outbreak and a soldier, a tall Asian woman, watches you on your daily run along the base. Running helps you clear your head, and you need something to do and somewhere to go when you are not working. You don't like the barracks where you sleep, together with all the other civilian refugees. The others feel uncomfortable around you. They look at you as if you were hiding something. Like a zombie bite.

 

It's been fifteen weeks since the outbreak and the soldier compliments your pace and stamina. She asks if you were willing to do a different job than what you do in the kitchens now. You nod.

 

It's been seventeen weeks since the outbreak and you are delivering written messages from one side of the huge military base to the other. Communication via radio is restricted to urgent business to save battery and fuel. You deliver the less urgent messages. You take the notes, you salute, you run, you hand them over, you salute again. You prefer this job to the one in the kitchen. You don't have to be around people who ask questions. And you can run.

 

* * *

 

It's been twenty-one weeks since the outbreak and the Asian soldier asks if you know how to set up a tent and do easy repair work. You nod. She has another job for you.

 

It's been twenty-one weeks and two days and you leave the military base with two other people – _Runners_ – with a big bagpack and a headset. You follow the two Runners, you follow the instructions given to you via headset. You are heading for a small settlement a few hours away. You have your axe with you, just in case. You help setting up a few tents and some solar panels. They seem grateful. They thank you. You just nod and wait until the Runners are done chatting, so you can get out there and start running again.

 

It's been twenty-five weeks and four days, and you have seen many different settlements, with many different Runners. They think you are a weirdo, not really one of them, just the strange person who tags along and helps out, who is silent and different, yet efficient. You stick to yourself and you don't care. Sometimes they sit together and talk about their families and their homes, and who they had to kill. Rinse and Repeat.  
You don't join them. You don't want to freak them out because you don't know how to behave among others anymore. You don't remember if you ever knew. Maybe as a kid, maybe as a kid you knew. You're not sure. Maybe you've always been different. And difficult. Your father did call you difficult a lot. Maybe he was right... Even now that the world has ended, you are still different after all.

 

* * *

 

It's been thirty weeks and five days and the pilot who operates the helicopter tries to have a conversation with you. You listen to her talking, sometimes you nod, but you don't answer. She thinks you are hiding something.

 

It's been thirty weeks and five days, and there is a loud crash and your whole world shakes and explodes and you are falling, falling, falling, much too fast.

 

It's been thirty weeks and five days when you feel the urge to scream as you fall, but there is nothing coming out of your mouth. You are not even surprised. Too stupid and too different, not even capable of a last, dying scream. Not even when facing death can you be normal. You're disappointed, but not surprised.

 

It's been thirty weeks and five days, when there is a crash. There is darkness. And then nothing.

 

* * *

 

It's been thirty weeks and five days, and every bone of your body aches. Compared to the terrible noice of the crash, everything else seems unnaturally silent. Is this it? Did you lose your hearing? Did you lose yet another sense? Is that your punishment for being different and difficult? You panic.

 

It's been thirty weeks and five days when you hear a voice coming out of the headset next to you, pulling you out of your panic. You are not deaf. This is no punishment. It's not the time to be afraid.

 

It's been thirty weeks and five days when you pick up the headset, when you still don't know where you are, when you listen to the voice, and you run.

 

It's been thirty weeks and five days, and the settlement's radio operator, Sam Yao, starts calling you _Runner Five_ as you make your way to safety. It sounds strange and foreign in your ears. You can't remember the last time someone called you by your actual name. You don't really remember the way it sounds when someone says it. You think you could get used to this new name. You like the way it sounds.

 

It's been thirty weeks and five days, and the people at the township shoot the zombie chasing you. The woman who was _Runner Five_ before you. She was the radio operator's girlfriend. She died. All people die. That's why you are glad you don't have friends, and don't know how to make friends. Because people die.

 

It's been thirty weeks and five days, and you arrive at the settlement and you feel sorry for the radio operator. When he greets you, along with all the other people who came out to see who you are, you want to tell him how sorry you are for his loss. You can't. Of course you can't. You difficult after all. You're not surprised.

 

* * *

 

It's been thirty weeks and six days and the doctor wonders if you don't talk because you've experienced something really dramatic. You shake your head. She frowns, but only a little, then she gives you a smile and nods. She finishes her check up. You feel grateful. She doesn't try to persuade you to speak. Not that you could if you tried. You decide you like the doctor.

 

It's been thirty-one weeks and you live at Abel Township now. You are grateful that they saved your life, and they need more Runners. Abel is smaller than the military base though, making it harder to hide and blend in with the crowd. You stand out. But you don't really have a choice. You might as well stay here.

 

It's been thirty-two weeks and two days and the radio operator sure does talk a lot. Words are easy for him.

 

It's been thirty-two weeks and three days, and the people at Abel Township sometimes smile at you. Some of them tell stories of their families. Rinse and repeat. Some of them ask a lot of questions, and are confused when you don't answer. But still they keep having lunch with you, and talking to you.  
You know you are not very good with other people, but you are good at running. And you like the idea of helping others by doing the only thing you are not a complete failure at.

 

It's been thirty-three weeks and five days and Sam Yao, the radio operator, admits that it's difficult for him to do his work if don't communicate with him during your runs. You understand, you are sorry, you want to apologize but you can't even open your mouth to say anything. He doesn't understand why you don't talk, but he says it's okay, that you don't have to, the two of you'll figure out another way to communicate.

 

It's been thirty-three weeks and five days and for the first time someone says it is okay.

 

* * *

 

It's been thirty-four weeks and another Runner, Jody, is a little confused when you don't talk to her on your first run together. Maxine, the doctor, explains that you don't like to speak. Jody looks at you, surprised, then she smiles. She calls you _one of those silent types_. She doesn't say _strange_ , or _difficult_ , or _different_. Just _silent_. She smiles when she says that it's a pleasure to meet you. You can't smile back, but for the first time in forever you _try_ to smile. At least you try.

 

It's been thirty-five weeks and together with Sam Yao you have perfected a system of hand gestures visible through the cameras, allowing you to communicate with him during missions, if absolutely necessary.

 

It's been thirty-five weeks and two days, and Runner Eight switches off the radio connection during your run. For the first time since you've arrived at Abel, you feel insecure. You nearly stumble over you feet when you realize why. You've started feeling save. Not at the moment though. Because Sara doesn't like you. She doesn't trust you. She thinks you have secrets. You want to explain, but you can't. How could you? You are wary around her.

 

It's been thirty-seven weeks since the outbreak, and the two radio hosts, Jack and Eugene, devote a song to you, because your fuel run allowed them to go back on air. They call you the _silent and mysterious new Runner_ and play _Sound of Silence_ for you. It makes you all warm and happy inside.  
Simon Lauchlan, the Runner doing his warm up exercises next to you, asks if that is an actual smile on your face.

 

It's been thirty-seven weeks since the outbreak and Simon Lauchlan is right: You are smiling. You are surprised. He laughs and tells you to smile more often. It makes you look less gloomy. You are not sure if he is hitting on you. He seems to be hitting on everyone.

 

* * *

 

It's been thirty-eight weeks and three days when Runner Eight tells you about her husband and children, and you feel sorry for her loss. It doesn't feel like before, not like rinse and repeat. It feels like hurt and pain. If you could, you'd tell her you're sorry. If you could you'd tell her that you pushed your mother and she broke her neck. You wonder if your father is still alive, and you realize you haven't been thinking about your parents for months.

 

It's been thirty-eight weeks and three days and Runner Eight is finally sure that she can trust you. You listen to her when she confides in you and tells you about _Project Greenshoot_. She asks you not to talk to anyone about it, only to wink at you. Runner Eight appreciates that you are a silent person who doesn't chat a lot.

 

It's been thirty-eight weeks and three days and someone seems to appreciate the thing about you that makes you different and difficult. Runner Eight likes that you don't talk. You promise yourself to keep her secret save. Always. It's the first time someone trusts you with a secret. You won't let her down!

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and Janine DeLuca, head of Abel, specifically wants you for a mission because she considers you to be one of the most reliable Runners Abel has. You feel all warm inside when you hear it, and decide to do your best to live up to her trust in you.

 

* * *

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day since the outbreak, you are lost, and in the darkness of the night, Sam Yao calls you his friend. You haven't had a friend. Ever. Or maybe you once had friends but you don't remember? That's very unlikely though, someone difficult and different like you having friends. But it doesn't matter anymore. You are someone's friend now.

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day, and words have always been your enemy, something strange and foreign, something you don't like because you don't know how to use them. But Sam Yao's words are your beacon out there in the dark, your comfort. Guiding you back to Abel.

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day and you approach Abel with pain in your legs, and pain in your heart, mosquito bites all over your body, and a pack of zombies chasing you. You spent the night outside. In the dark. Lost. All alone, but not … You can still hear Sam's voice in your head, you still remember everything he said, all guilty about things he shouldn't feel guilty about. The gates are already closing, the zombies are behind you, but you sprint. You have to make it, you just have to.

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day, and you are save. You fall on your knees, your feet no longer able to carry your weight. Your fellow runners gather round you, want to make sure you're okay. You realize that they worry about you. You need to sleep but you can't, not yet.

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day, and Janine and Maxine make sure people step back to give you some room to breathe. Sam is right next to you, and he looks both worried and relieved, and he wants to say something but you shake your head because it's not on him to say anything. You have to, you _need_ to...

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day, and you take a deep breath and you take all the strengh you have left, because you want to tell Sam Yao, your _friend,_ that's it okay. That you understand. That it's not his fault. That there is nothing to feel guilty about.

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day since the outbreak, and you try, you try so hard, you want to force the words out, no matter how difficult and painful and terrible it is, you want to- you _have_ to-

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day, and for the first time in ages you want to express your feelings, your thoughts - but you fail. You're a failure. There is nothing coming out of your mouths. No words of encouragement. Of understanding. Of comfort. Different und difficult after all...

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day, and all you can do is hug Sam. Because words are too difficult. Still too difficult. Still your enemy. And you are a failure. But this is something you can do. At least this.

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day, and Sam Yao says "Thank you" as if he understands what you want to say, as if he knows, as if-

 

It's been thirty-nine weeks and one day since the outbreak when you realize, that yes, words are difficult for you, words are your enemy, but you finally understand that maybe, maybe, you don't need words. Maybe your friends will understand what you want to say anyways. Maybe, just maybe, communication is more than words.

 

* * *

 

When you hug Sam Yao after your night lost in the dark and after his confession, he understands.

 

When you put your hand on Maxine's shoulder as she cries because of Paula's message, she understands.

 

When you look Sara in the eyes after the explosion, and nod, before she runs away to protect you, to lure away the zombies, she understands.

 

When you punch Jack in the face, who greets you, unaware of how much pain and suffering he has caused, he understands.

 

When you wave and smile at every familiar face among the refugees arriving at New Canton, your friends understand.

 

You don't need words. Not really. Not anymore. Because you have friends now. And your friends, they understand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not too sure how to end this chapter. I have a version on my computer with Five finally managing to find their voice and speak, at least a little, but it felt forced. So I decided on this ending instead.
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed my little writing experiment!  
> You can find me on tumblr (collected-sports-bra), if you want to hang out and chat.


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